I stared at him, mouth slightly agape. It was so over-the-top, I didn’t know whether to laugh or punch something. And apparently, even that was too much for him.
Without warning, he started marching toward me, heavy boots pounding the dirt.
“Hey, kid,” he barked.
“Yeah?”
“You just said something earlier, didn’t you? ‘I’ve got a question,’ or some crap like that?”
“Yeah. So?”
He gave a single, theatrical nod. Then he raised his fist.
“When you speak to an instructor during training camp, you do it with respect. You say, ‘Instructor, sir! Permission to ask a question, sir!’ Got that?!”
The punch came, a lazy, looping right hook that honestly looked like it came out of some third-rate drama. It was slow enough that I could’ve dodged it blindfolded. But I didn’t. I let it hit me.
There was a dull, satisfying thud as his fist connected with my cheek. It didn’t hurt much; it wasn’t meant to. It was a theater. A statement.
Around me, the entire class froze. The air went cold. No one spoke. No one moved.
Maybe this was part of his method. Break us down. Humiliate us. See who quit and who dug in. If the rumors were true, this training camp wasn’t just harsh; it was hell. And it had only just begun.
Just as the instructor had said, more than half the students here were expected to fail, not because they weren’t trying, but because they lacked talent. No magical aptitude. No real potential. Technically, we weren’t even full students yet. The Academy saw it as an extended entrance exam. A final filter. A bit of basic instruction followed by a cold, ruthless decision: keep the useful ones, discard the rest.
And because we were all on probation, we were going to be pushed hard, driven through relentless drills and physical conditioning. The kind of training designed not just to test skill but to break spirits. In a situation like that, complaints were inevitable. Resentment would bubble up, fast and loud.
Which was exactly why the instructor had opened with a punch. Not just at me—though I got the honor—but as a message to the rest of the class. Put them in their place right out of the gate. Set the hierarchy early. Make it clear who was in charge and what happened when you stepped out of line.
Judging by the expressions around me, it had worked. Most of the students were frozen, stuck with those stiff, pasted-on faces that screamed, “Don’t make eye contact.” If his goal had been total submission, then yeah, mission accomplished.
But me? I wasn’t having it.
I’d never been part of any jock culture back in Japan, never bought into the whole “shut up and obey” system. I hated that mindset. And that was exactly why I didn’t dodge his punch. I let him hit me on purpose.
He thought he could set the tone with a single blow, but when his fist connected, I saw it. Just for a split second. The flicker in his eyes. The way his façade cracked.
He hadn’t expected me to take the hit, or to still be standing there, completely unfazed. He tried to play it off, keeping his face neutral, but I saw the hesitation. My slight, knowing smile made him stiffen.
“Open your mouth,” he said suddenly.
Ah. So that’s what he’s thinking. I complied without resistance.
He peered in, clearly expecting something—blood, broken teeth, maybe even a metal plate or implant. But he found nothing.
“Huh,” he muttered, frowning. “Nothing.”
“Something wrong?” I asked, voice calm, almost playful.
“No. Forget it.”
His expression said otherwise. He was rubbing his fist now, trying not to make it obvious, but I saw it. And I nearly burst out laughing. When he punched me with full force, it was not much different from slamming his fist into a slab of steel.
Unless he had a specialized melee-class profession, like a martial artist or a battle monk, throwing a barehanded punch at my face was just self-harm.
Well, judging by the way he was flexing his fingers and the slight swelling starting to show, it looked like he’d gotten away with just a minor bruise. No bones broken, fortunately for him.
Our group—Class F, the bottom of the barrel—consisted of forty-five students in total. Escorted by five seasoned adventurers, we began our march into the Forest of Welim, otherwise known as the Forest of Lost Paths. As for our capabilities in combat? Rock bottom. Or rather, their capabilities. I wasn’t worried about myself.
If any monsters ambushed us now, most of these kids wouldn’t last ten seconds. Worse yet, the forest itself was a nightmare. Twisting paths, mana-heavy air that warped your sense of direction, and a magical field that completely scrambled compasses. Unless you were an expert at navigating enchanted terrain, getting lost was practically guaranteed.
So why were we headed into a place like this? Simple: control.
By dragging us into an isolated, hostile environment, the academy was making a point. There was no running. No escape. They wanted us tired, intimidated, and just cooperative enough to follow orders without question. A form of soft imprisonment, dressed up as training.
Just before we left the Academy grounds, they split us into nine squads of five. The instructor explained that all camp activities would be conducted in teams, and we were expected to operate in these formations at all times. No introductions, no names, just line up and move out. We formed nine tight columns, five to a line, and began our march. The idea, apparently, was that we’d get to know each other along the way.
After a while, once we were deep into the outskirts of the forest, I figured it was time to break the silence.
“Ryuto Maclaine. Villager. Nice to meet you,” I said.
I heard a soft groan beside me. “Great. I get stuck with a Villager? Just my luck.”
The one complaining was Arthur Markham, a lean, sharp-featured guy with shoulder-length blond hair that looked like it belonged in a noble court, not a death march through an enchanted forest. He was the third son of some poor noble house, the kind that had prestige but no money. He looked at me like I’d tracked mud on his carpet, but at least he shook my hand. That alone made him more tolerable than most.
Turning to the next person in line, I extended my hand toward a small-framed boy with pale skin and short silver hair cut in a clean bob. He looked delicate, more like a scholar than a soldier, but there was something focused in his eyes.
The silver-haired boy just stared at my outstretched hand for a second, then deliberately turned his face away.
“Right,” I muttered. “What’s your problem?”
“It’s pointless,” he said quietly.
“Pointless? What is?”
He let out a soft sigh, like talking to me was already beneath him. “Must I really explain everything? Though I suppose yes, in this case, a brief explanation will expedite things.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You’ve lost me.”
With a theatrical shrug, he finally met my gaze. “Your job class is Villager. Statistically, that makes you a guaranteed dropout. I, on the other hand, have the aptitude of a Mage. I’ll advance, you’ll be dismissed. Our paths will never cross again, not after this training camp. Therefore, building a relationship with you yields no benefit to my life. It would be… inefficient.”
“In other words?”
“In other words, I won’t be speaking to you,” he said matter-of-factly. “That includes greetings.”
“Wow. What a charming personality you’ve got.”
Even I couldn’t help but feel irritated by that.
I knew it wasn’t worth it, that I should stay under the radar. But something about this smug bastard made my blood run hot. One punch wouldn’t get me kicked out, right?
That was what I told myself as I grabbed the front of his robes and yanked him toward me.
“A Villager picking a fight with a Mage?” he said, eyes narrowing. “You’re either braver or stupider than I thought.”
“You know,” I muttered, “you smell just like a certain childhood friend of mine. Same stuck-up, arrogant, self-important stench.”
Before things could escalate, a small, flustered figure suddenly stepped between us.
“Um, uh… Wait! P-Please don’t fight! Fighting’s not good!”
A shrine maiden.
No mistaking it. She wore the traditional red-and-white robes, a miko uniform straight from the east. The Academy mandated uniforms, but in her case, a special cultural exemption had been granted because she was a foreign exchange student. And yeah, she stood out. A lot.
White sleeves flowed around her arms, and a crimson hakama swayed around her legs. Her black hair was tied into twin tails that framed her delicate face. She was tiny, barely a hundred and fifty centimeters tall, but despite her small frame, her figure, well, she certainly didn’t lack curves.